


The Waterfall

by orphan_account



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen, Post - Order of the Phoenix
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-04
Updated: 2011-06-04
Packaged: 2017-10-20 02:55:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/208017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The end of the line.</p><p>Written post - Order of the Phoenix.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Waterfall

The man staggered up the stream bed, stumbling over rocks, falling, but forcing himself up and moving relentlessly on. His hands were grazed and bleeding, his robes torn, the freezing water soaking his boots and tattered trousers.

On and on he walked, the ground rising higher and the stream more treacherous. Finally as night began to fall the trees thinned and parted and the man lifted his aching head. A beautiful sight filled his eyes.

A waterfall crashed from hundreds of feet above him into a sucking pool. The plunging frenzy of water roared in his ears. Spray exploded from the churning surface and scattered the last rays of sun.

For a moment the man stood drinking in the sight, then he lost his balance and crashed to the ground.

Night fell and his body lay prone, his face white with chill and dark with streaks of dead blood.

Hours later he woke in the pitch dark of a moonless night to the sound of the pounding water. He lay still, his senses coming to life, then pushed himself away from the ground.

On and on he climbed in the dark, the weak light coming from the wand in his teeth rendering his carved features even more severe. His strength leaked away as he continued to climb, the noise of the waterfall above and beside him deafening now, the rock wet and slippery with moss and slime. His eyes were dark pits, searching in the dim light for handholds, footholds in the rock.

Hours later, as the eastern sky turned a pale grey, he reached the top of the falls. He crawled away from the dangerous smooth water curling over the edge and dragged himself into the shallows. He collapsed forward onto a rock, his head cradled in his arms, and lay there, still, until the sun was warm on his back.

As a child he’d come here and done the same. Walked all the way up the stream for hours, then climbed the waterfall and finally, finally, made it here to the top. He remembered the need to do something big, to negate the shouting, the violence, the stupidity of his home. He remembered the ache in his skinny childish limbs, the weariness, and the spike of pleasure that he’d done it. He’d done it.

He remembered wading out as far into the rushing water as he dared, as close to the edge as he dared. Only– not that close. He was easily frightened.

It was hours later that he became really frightened. As darkness began to fall and it truly sunk in that he’d run away from home. That he was half way around the world at the top of a remote waterfall he’d seen in a picture in an atlas in the Hogwarts library. He’d been fascinated by the water endlessly falling. He’d prop the book open inside his curtained bed in the dorm and watch it as he was falling asleep. He’d dream about finding it one day, and climbing to the top.

Two days later they found him. He was hungry and subdued and glad to be found, glad to know he could see his mother again, see the library again. But the Ministry fines for his infraction were severe, and his father beat the price out of his hide again and again.

He stands up now and looks out over the waterfall. Ragged mountains and steep gorges lead away into the distance, covered in strange dark trees. The light is so clear and sharp it stings his eyes, the air is fresh and smells wet and sweet. It’s an untamed place, a young place. He can’t sense the dead here, only stillness and thundering water.

The dead. After long years of painful reparation he killed again and resumed his role. He killed the only one he ever loved and then he killed, helped kill, finally, the one he hated. His life reduced to a list of deaths.

Severus wades out now into the water, close to where it curves so dangerously downwards. He closes his eyes and sees a flash of black plunging over the falls, twisting in the white spray, then gone.

Frightened, he falls to his knees and the chill water soaks his clothes, floods his skin. He raises handfuls to his face and drinks. The water tastes metallic and he sways, his vision whiting out, the flash of black a negative image, endlessly falling.

But, somehow, the moment passes.

He gets to his feet, and instead of falling, he walks to the shallows. He climbs out. His cold bloodless fingers peel off his wet robes and he lets them fall onto the mossy bank.

He lies down on the ground by the waterfall, staring at the sky. Scarred, skinny, and un-beautiful; but beginning to dry in the sun.


End file.
